Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany
and shut the protesting dog inside; then I returned to the house and entered through the French doors leading into the dining room. Edna was setting tables for tomorrow with our pink and red china, sterling silver flatware, and white linens. She didn’t look up when I came in.
“What’s going on out there? Are there whales in the bay?”
“There’s been an accident on the stairs. Have you seen Rose this morning?”
“No, I haven’t. I don’t think she’s come in yet. What sort of accident? Is everyone okay?”
“No. Not okay.” I lowered my voice, even though no one else was around. “A man’s dead.”
Edna dipped her head.
I let out a relieved breath when I heard a steady tap-tap on the old wooden floor of the hallway and Rose came into the dining room with her leopard-print cane, dressed for the day in red Bermuda shorts and a purple T-shirt dotted with orange flowers. Black socks were pulled up to her calves, and her feet were in sturdy Birkenstocks.
“There’s been an accident outside,” I told her. “A man fell down the steps.” At last I heard the faint sound of sirens approaching. “An ambulance has been called, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
Rose’s eyes widened in shock, and she lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear. Not one of our guests, I hope.” The top of the bluffs was on our property, but hikers often didn’t worry about such things and tried to keep as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. We never asked them to leave if they weren’t causing trouble.
“No,” I said. “Not a guest . . .”
“How dreadful. Don’t worry about me, love. You go out and supervise.”
“It’s Jack Ford,” I said. “He seems to have fallen. He’s dead.”
Edna sucked in a breath.
Rose’s eyes narrowed. “Jack Ford? What do you suppose he was doing here this morning? Trespassing on my property.” She walked across the room and took a seat at a table next to the windows. “Edna, I’ll have my tea here this morning.”
“Only because you seem to be in such a state of shock,” Edna said, “I’ll make it. But just this once. Don’t let it become a habit.”
“You’ll either have to make your own tea or wait for it,” I said. “I have another job for Edna. Run up to the tearoom and take some cookies out of the freezer. The spare key is on the hook in the kitchen. Lay out coffee and cookies in here. If the police have questions for our guests, we need to give them something to keep them happy.”
People in uniform ran past the windows. Edna headed for the kitchen to get the key to the tearoom.
“Your job, Rose,” I said, “will be to keep the guests from speculating as to what happened. We don’t want any talk of unsafe conditions.”
“I can’t entertain without first having something to wet my whistle.”
“Stiff upper lip and all that. Pretend it’s the Blitz and you’re in a tunnel in the London Underground while bombs drop overhead.”
“Really, love. I am not that old.”
“Use your imagination.”
I went back outside. Most of our guests had come to see what the fuss was about and were being kept away from the gate and the steps by a scowling uniformed police officer. Simon and Bernie were standing to one side, talking to a short, round man. I walked over to join them, and the newcomer turned toward me. His face was flabby; his jowls loose; his nose covered with a network of fine red lines. Strings of long greasy black hair were plastered across the top of his head in a failed attempt to appear as though he wasn’t going bald. He wore a cheap, ill-fitting suit and a plain tie with a coffee stain on it.
I held out my hand. “I’m Lily Roberts. My grandmother is the property owner here.”
He glanced at my hand, hesitated just long enough to seem rude, and then took it in his. I’ve felt firmer dead fish.
“Detective Chuck Williams. North Augusta PD. I’ve been told this is a bed-and-breakfast establishment.”
“That’s right. These people”—I indicated the watching crowd—“are our guests.” Whether they were all staying at the B & B, I didn’t know. Other than cooking the breakfasts, I didn’t have much to do with the running of the hotel.
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself, and I threw a quick glance over the fence. A woman crouched beside Jack Ford, while a uniformed officer watched. Two medics were climbing the steps.
When they reached the top, Detective Williams said, “One moment, please. You people wait here,” and went to speak to them.
“You okay?” I asked Bernie.
She gave me a weak smile. “Yeah. Tough way to start the day.” She turned to Simon. “Hi. I’m Bernadette Murphy. Everyone calls me Bernie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Bernie. I’m Simon, the new gardener.” He eyed her totally out-of-place clothes. “Do you work here?”
“Not if I can help it,” she said. “I hope we don’t have to stand around outside much longer. I’m getting hot.”
“If you didn’t dress like the bride of Dracula, you wouldn’t be,” I said.
“I thought I was getting in the mood.” She glanced behind her and shuddered. “This wasn’t the mood I was planning on. Do you think I can go home?”
“Better wait until the detective says we can leave. They’ll be sure to have questions for us.”
The paramedics and Chuck Williams talked in low voices. But not that low, and I was able to catch a few words, including coroner and autopsy and head. The medics walked away, taking their equipment with them. The woman who’d been studying the body appeared at the top of the stairs. She was about my age, attractive, with olive skin, dyed blond hair cropped short, and large dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. She was slightly taller than me, about five foot nine, and as lean and toned as a racehorse, with all the suppressed energy of that horse when it was about to leap out of the starting gate. Her very presence screamed “cop.”
She gave Williams an abrupt nod and they joined our little circle.
“You were with Ms. Murphy when she found the body,” Williams said to me. It was not a question.
“Yes, I was. I noticed the gate was broken and wanted to have a look at it. We saw . . . him and ran down to try to help.” I swallowed. “We could tell right away it was too late.”
“Doctor, are you?” Williams asked.
“What? Uh, no. I’m not a doctor.”
“But you knew he was dead.”
I glanced at Bernie. She shifted her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs, and I said, “I did.”
“Did you have a dog with you?” the woman asked. “There are prints in the sand.”
“Yes. I’ve put her in the house. I didn’t let her . . . touch the body.”
“What do you do for a living, Ms. Roberts?” she asked.
“I’m a pastry chef. I own and run the tearoom near the road. You would have passed it on your way in.”
“Do you live nearby?”
I pointed. “That’s my cottage over there. We’d been in the kitchen of the main house, preparing breakfast for the guests, and I was on my way home when I noticed the broken gate.”
She turned to Simon. “What brings you here? You don’t look like a B & B guest.”
“I’m not. I’m the gardener.”
The